


hold your devil by the throat

by alamorn



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Consent Issues, Gunplay, Hate Sex, M/M, Object Insertion, Sex as assertion of dominance, Snowed In, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-13 20:50:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10521594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alamorn/pseuds/alamorn
Summary: Steve ends up in the snowy hell of who knows where and the only things around are a dead bomb and Brock Rumlow. Wanda's weird shit has never been weirder, and Steve has never been less happy to see another human being.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morning_coffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morning_coffee/gifts).



It all happens very fast. Rumlow says, "When you gotta go, you gotta go," and there's a deadman switch in his hand, and there's a snap of magic and pressure and _cold_ and he's stumbling in snow to his hips, puking his guts up. Rumlow's a few feet away doing the same thing, the switch dangling from his sleeve.

"Wanda," Steve groans. Nothing. "Wanda!" He pulls his comm from his ear and shakes it, as if that will do anything. When he puts it back in, there's a burst of static, a jump of electricity that does nothing for his quickly worsening headache, and dead silence. "Shit."

When he looks up, Rumlow is barreling towards him, a snarl on his twisted face. It's almost funny -- the snow is so deep that the run is more a crawl and Steve just shifts his weight and sends Rumlow over his hip face first into more snow. 

He drops onto Rumlow's back while he's trying to struggle to his feet, and it sends them deeper into the snow. "Where's Bucky?" he demands, too furious to be embarrassed by the desperation in his voice. "Where is he?"

Rumlow turns his head so that all Steve can see is the rubbery flesh that used to be an ear. His teeth are bared. "He begged for you, you know. Oh Stevie!" he pitches his voice grotesquely. "Come save me, Stevie!"

Steve punches him in the kidneys and his falsetto dissolves into cruel laughter. Steve punches him again for good measure. "Where is he!"

"Long gone," Rumlow crows. "Guess he just didn't want to see you, Stevie."

Steve wraps his hands around Rumlow's throat, fingertips digging into the cartilage of his trachea. Rumlow bucks and struggles under him, but can't get leverage in the snow. He's wheezing and weakening when Steve finds his hands loosening.

This would not be the worst thing he's done, not even close. It needs to be done. Rumlow is everything he stands against. But the cold is creeping in through his armor, and as far as he can see there is only the glittering, blinding white of snow. Rumlow is hot beneath him, and there’s something coiling in his belly, something he can’t or won’t name, hot and tight and ready to choke him.

He feels very empty, all of a sudden. Shock, probably. He stands, stepping firmly on Rumlow's head, picks a direction, and starts fighting his way through the snow. He wants to be away from here, away from this monster that does nothing but remind him he will never finish his fight. 

"Pussy!" Rumlow screams after him.

Steve ignores him and walks. He postholes with every step, to his knee or hip, and he's pouring sweat in minutes. For a while there's no sound but his own labored breathing, the crunch of snow compacting under his weight. The sun is at a low angle, not like it's setting but like he's farther north than he's ever been before. He can feel the bottom of his chin burning with reflected light.

His injuries are healing slower than normal, without food. His ribs hurt with each breath, his back grinds worryingly.

He's not sure when he realizes Rumlow is behind him. He ignores him for a while, focusing on the horizon instead. He's moving slower than he has since the serum in this snow, and he doesn't want to be stuck on the vast plains of snow overnight.

Is there something there, at the edge of his vision? It's just a smudge on the horizon, but it's still there when he blinks hard and scrubs at his eyes. He shifts directions to aim for it and trudges on, the back of his neck prickling with the awareness that he'll be spending the night with Rumlow.

Should he have killed him? The bitter taste in his mouth says yes. He spits and turns to watch Rumlow struggling through the snow behind him. He’s moving faster than Steve, but when he notices Steve standing still he pauses and flips Steve the bird. He doesn’t start moving again until Steve does. A holding pattern that won’t hold for long.

After another hour the smudge on the horizon resolves into a house, but it's another four hours before Steve is scooping snow away from the door. The light is strange and gray and his fingers are blue and wrinkled by the time he can wedge the door open enough to shove himself through. 

It's empty, which isn't a surprise, and it's been empty a while, which is even less of one. There's no windows, and by some miracle the roof and walls seem to be whole, or at least structurally stable, but what there is of furniture is splintered and gnawed, the victim of years and vermin. And there, miracle of miracles, is a fireplace. Snow's come down the chimney and spread in front of it, but if he can light a fire without suffocating to death he's not going to fuss.

He considers holding the door closed and letting Rumlow freeze to death outside but the idea of trying to shove the door open when there's a corpse in front of it is exhausting just to imagine.

Instead he starts collecting all of the broken furniture and splintered wood in the front of the fireplace. The chimney's almost definitely clogged with snow, but he's exhausted and cold and resigned to hoping for the best.

Rumlow clatters in just as he's lighting the fire. He casts a wary glance at the fire and around the single bare room. The burned side of his mouth twitches and then he says, "So ashamed of me you couldn't even get a motel? I understand. You're ugly too."

Steve's so startled he barks out a laugh. Then his stomach grumbles, loud and long. "Got anything to eat?" he asks, hopes low. He went through the few protein bars he keeps in his pockets at all times hours ago.

"I was planning on being dead by now, so. No."

The fire gobbles through the scraps of fabric and Steve starts feeding in larger wood chips. "Why do the hit if you didn't expect to live?"

Rumlow gives him a grin that has some of the old charm, from when Steve thought they were friends. "You're not the only one with a death wish, Rogers."

The fire crackles up high enough that it's actually throwing off heat, so Steve focuses on it, and ignores Rumlow. When it's caught and going merrily, snow melting down the edge of the chimney but not directly into the fire, Steve stands and starts to strip out of his soaked uniform.

"Not gonna make it a show?" Rumlow says, from where he's sprawled on the ground. "Come on, baby, take it slow."

"Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?" Steve asks, laying his uniform out to dry next to the fire. The air is still cold, but the relief of getting his wet clothes off helps him ignore it. Besides, with the fire going, it's warming up.

"Hasn't happened yet," Rumlow says. Despite his commentary, he's stripping too, and shivering, now that Steve looks at him.

Steve has always had twisted up feelings about being naked in front of people. There's left-over bashfulness from his own body, but the army and experiments they ran on him pretty well weeded out any active shyness. His discomfort now is more that he doesn't trust Rumlow than any self-consciousness. And after that moment, he doesn’t trust himself, either.

He sits next to his clothes in front of the fire. He wants to lay down, or lean against the wall, but the wood below him saps the heat from his body so he has to limit contact.

Rumlow lays his own clothes out next to Steve's, and Steve takes a moment to examine him. He's left his gloves on for some reason. The skin of his arms above them is twisted from burns but his chest is almost smooth. And when Steve lets his gaze drop, his cock and thighs are still whole.

"See something you like?" Rumlow half snarls.

"Not since you turned Hydra," Steve says, because he's tired and stupid.

"Oh?" Rumlow says, a vicious smile crossing his face. "You liked me before you knew?"

Steve gives him a slow, deliberate once over. Despite his gooseflesh, Rumlow's cock is swelling. It sends a swell of sick heat across Steve's body. "Don't see how that matters now."

The worse burned side of Rumlow's mouth is twitching rapidly, and before Steve can blink, Rumlow is looming over him, pressing a gun hard against the soft hollow of his jaw. He swallows, feels the cold metal press into his skin, and slowly, slowly, meets Rumlow's gaze.

Rumlow smiles at him, slides his free hand behind Steve's neck to hold him to the gun in a parody of friendly touch. "Did you want me, Rogers? When Romanoff was trying to set you up, did you wish she'd say my name?"

The adrenaline is burning off his exhaustion. His blood is buzzing in his head. He’s fast but a bullet is faster. Fear makes his tongue tingle, blood rush down. He says, "You think highly of yourself."

Rumlow glances down and his lip curls at the sight of Steve's quickly growing erection. "That wasn't a denial."

"It would only be embarrassing if I still wanted you."

Rumlow knots his fingers hard in Steve's hair, yanks his head back. The gloves are slippery and cold and catch oddly at his hair. He presses the gun harder into Steve's throat, hard enough to bruise. His eyes are dark and wild. "I think you do," he says. "You still want me. Say it."

Steve braces his free hands behind him. "Or what?"

"I could blow your head off right here." His lip pulls up. His teeth are still perfect -- luck, or good fakes? "Your body would do me more good than the rest of you. Something to fuck, something to eat. A pillow at night." He tightens his fist, pulling hair out by the root. Then he releases it, smooths Steve's hair down faux tenderly, takes a step back, gun going down to his side. "I won't, though. Don't worry your pretty little head."

Steve doesn't relax, but he does cock his head to eye Rumlow. "Worry?" he says. "About you?"

Rumlow attempts a charming smile, then lunges, knocking Steve onto his back and straddling his chest. Rumlow's fully hard now, the heat of his cock on Steve's chest a sharp contrast to the cold of the floor against his back. He presses the gun against Steve's lips, hard enough to cut them on his teeth, so Steve opens his mouth and lets him press the gun in so it bumps against the back of his throat and Steve has to fight back the gag. 

His jaw already aches from the intrusion and he glares at Rumlow.

"Suck it," Rumlow says, intense and low. "Put that pretty mouth to work."

Steve sucks, hollowing his cheeks and running his tongue along the barrel, circling and dipping in the hole. Rumlow thrusts it slowly in and out, always pressing down far enough to make Steve gag and choke. He holds it there as Steve struggles and Steve can just see the flex and jump of muscles in his forearm as his trigger finger strokes the trigger.

It shouldn’t make him hard. It does. He redoubles his efforts with his tongue, the occasional moan sneaking out around the barrel of the gun. It’s the most honest show he’s ever put on.

When Rumlow's eyes are unfocused and there's precum smearing on Steve's chest, Steve punches him in the elbow.

Rumlow drops the gun, but not before it knocks hard against Steve's teeth. Steve rips the gun from his mouth, throws it across the room, flips them, clamps his knees around Rumlow's hips and thrusts so their cocks rub together.

"You need to be told to shut up more," he says, wrapping his hand around both of their cocks and thrusting lazily. "Cause I gotta be honest with you -- I got bored a while ago."

He spreads Rumlow's precum with his thumb so there's no rough pull of friction, just a smooth slide that sends electricity crackling up his spine. Rumlow moans and traces his gloved hand up Steve's side, pinches his nipple, shoves hard at the dark bruise that covers his ribs. The shock of pain makes his hips stutter and he yelps, captures Rumlow's hands with his free one and pins them above his head.

"This is a good look for you," he says, examining Rumlow. Black leather gloves creaking as his hands clench and flex, flush splotching unevenly over scarred and smooth skin, cock deep red and held tight against Steve's own.

Rumlow shows him his teeth. Before he can say anything, Steve leans down and bites at his throat, his collarbones, sucking hard at each spot. The twisted scar tissue feels different under his tongue. To make sure Rumlow can feel him through the thick skin, he bites harder.

Rumlow hisses. “You’re just a dirty slut, after all,” he gasps, “so eager to get your mouth on me. When you thought of me and touched yourself, was it like this? Or did I lay you down gently and fuck you hard like the little slut you are?”

Steve bites down over his pulse point, hard enough that Rumlow yowls, and he can feel the beating of his heart on his tongue. When he’s made his point, he pulls back and examines the work he’s done. The scar tissue isn’t bruising, but the whole flesh is purpling already, and there are bite marks everywhere. “If anyone’s getting fucked here, it’s you.” 

He slides back, so his cock slides down and presses at Rumlow’s ass. Unlubed, there’s no way he’s getting in, but the way Rumlow tenses is gratifying. He nudges a few times, bumps that could turn into force, and watches Rumlow’s mouth twitch. Then he slides back up to rut against him once more.

His own cock is leaking precum now too, and it’s easy to smear it around and smooth the passage of cock against cock. His hand is tight around them, too tight maybe, the edge of pain shooting shivers up his spine, the grimace on Rumlow’s face a direct line to his balls.

He drops their cocks so he’s just rutting hard against Rumlow’s cock and belly, and slaps him hard across the face. When Rumlow snarls and strains at Steve’s hold, he cups his scarred cheek. “It’s gotta fucking burn, that you’re twice as ugly as the Red Skull and half as impressive.”

Before Rumlow can respond, Steve slaps him again. If he balled up his hand into a fist, he could knock some of those perfect teeth from Rumlow’s head. The thought, the dazed look in Rumlow’s eyes, the blood he can see on Rumlow’s lips, sends him over the edge. His come spatters almost to Rumlow’s chin, but before he can enjoy the sight, Rumlow decks him in the face.

Disoriented from the fist and dazed from his orgasm, he doesn’t understand what’s happening until he’s flat on his stomach, a belt cinching tight around his forearms so he can’t get any leverage.

_Fast_ , or was his sex stupid brain just slow? Either way, he’s prone, arms bound tight. Rumlow kicks his legs farther apart and settles between them, massaging Steve’s ass with one hand before spanking it hard, once, twice, thrice.

“You’re red, white and blue,” Rumlow says and cackles. “How patriotic.” He squeezes the abused cheek and then there’s something hard and cold pressing at Steve’s ass. He jerks forward.

“ _Christ_ ,” he says, when he realizes, horrified, and his oversensitive cock hasn’t even had a chance to soften. He’s so hard he hurts.

“You like that, you dirty little slut?” He shift a little, and Steve can feel Rumlow’s thighs against the inside of his own. It feels intimate, somehow, more intimate than the animal rutting of before, more vulnerable than having the gun in his mouth. The gun is at his back now, and he likes it.

The next thing to press against Steve’s hole is Rumlow’s fingers, covered in something sticky and thick. His own come, he realizes, and heat rushes through him. He tilts his hips up and presses his hot face to the cold floor. Rumlow laughs, low and mean, and circles his hole a few times before pushing the smooth gloved tip of one finger in.

Steve’s not ready. Steve’s never been more ready in his life. “ _Fuuuck_ ,” he breathes and Rumlow laughs again. 

When Rumlow says, “I can’t tell what you want more, my dick or my gun. What about it, Stevie? You want me to shoot my load or my clip?” he almost croons it, the malice a near-forgotten edge. And anyways, Steve’s so desperately turned on that he can’t even make fun of Rumlow for his stupid line.

He wants both, anyway. Could he heal, if Rumlow shot him like that? He’s not sure, and he’s not sure if Rumlow _will_ shoot him. The uncertainty is amazing.

Rumlow works his finger farther in, then another. It’s too dry to be purely enjoyable, but this was never about enjoyment. Steve tries to brace himself, tucking his toes against the floor, but nothing he can do prepares him for the cold metal of the pistol replacing Rumlow’s fingers.

Rumlow smears more come into his hole, then pushes the gun in.

Steve jerks and moans, unable to stop himself. It’s too much, too hard, the implacable press inward is turning his mind to nothing but noise. He can’t feel any part of his body but the burn and stretch, the harsh cold of the metal. 

“What a goddamn beautiful sight,” Rumlow says, hoarse, and Steve has to twist to look back, has to see for himself. Rumlow is jerking off between his legs, black glove a shocking contrast to his red cock.

The position’s hard to hold and Steve collapses back onto his face, overwhelmed. He feels like a pointillist painting, dots of unconnected sensation that only make up a man if you stand back. Rumlow works the gun in farther, until the trigger guard bumps against his rim. Rumlow’s finger isn’t on the trigger and Steve has to bite back the whimper of disappointment.

“Harder,” he says instead. “Unless that’s all you’ve got.”

Rumlow bursts into startled laughter. “Oh what the history books left out about you.”

“You want a history lesson or you want to fuck me?” Steve snaps and wiggles his hips to make clear which he prefers.

“Needy, needy,” Rumlow tsks and slowly pulls the gun almost all the way out before sinking it in faster.

He sets a punishing pace, occasionally pausing to smear more come and ease the way. Cock trapped between the cold floor and his stomach, Steve writhes with it.

For a long moment, there is only their harsh breathing and the crackling of the fire, then Rumlow makes a small noise and hot come paints Steve’s back.

“I should leave you like this,” Rumlow tells him, standing and wandering over to the fire to feed more fuel into it. He’s cautious, flinching away when the flames leap higher. The gun is still in Steve’s ass, but when it’s not moving he’s more aware of the growing numbness in his fingers, the stiffness of his shoulders. 

It’s undignified, but he gets his knees under him and straightens up. Rumlow watches from the fireplace as Steve tests the strength of the belt. It’s good leather and this is an awkward position, but he’s strong and it only takes a few moments of straining to stretch the leather enough that he can wiggle his arms free. Then he reaches back and pulls the gun from his ass.

It’s a mess, probably unsalvageable, but when he levels it at Rumlow they’re both aware that rust in the future doesn’t mean it won’t fire now. “And I should kill you,” Steve says. 

Rumlow’s gloved hands flex on his knees. “What are you waiting for?”

Steve’s finger flexes on the trigger. Rumlow’s eyes slide closed. He releases the magazine and tosses it aside, pops the bullet from the chamber. Rumlow’s eyes snap back open.

“I’m cold,” Steve says. “We can kill each other in the morning.”


End file.
